


All Roads (lead to Rome)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Beware the nostalgia feels, Gen, Grumpy Old Men, but not really, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two legends trying to hide and a chance meeting in Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Roads (lead to Rome)

**Author's Note:**

> Set during this week’s Italy–Norway match — yes, I know Pirlo was in the stands the whole time, but lets just pretend for a second that he snuck out in the middle, okay? Good.
> 
> Written for an anonymous request on Tumblr. Please do [drop me a line](http://thousand-and-one-montos.tumblr.com/ask) if you want me to write something for you!

Miro doesn’t usually watch Italy play.

Yes, he lives and plays in Rome, which means he keeps seeing the Italian national team wherever he goes, but that doesn’t mean he has any particular interest to see the team on the pitch. Well, aside from an occasional peek, but that’s only because it’s important to know the opponents.

Tonight is different, though, because he needed a while away from home – that’s the problem with injuries and international breaks: he’s so used to not being around that prolonged times at home are driving him mad – and his favourite German pub in Rome happens to be showing the match, just like every other pub in the country.

“Another,” he orders from the bartender. The guy is new, doesn’t even speak German, but the beer is good nonetheless. The best in Rome. It’s that and the private environment that keeps Miro coming back – this is the one place where he can be invisible.

“Make that two,” a gruff voice tells from behind him, and then there is a man standing next to him, leaning his elbows on the counter. The cap he’s wearing is probably supposed to hide his identity; Miro idly wonders if a silly hat really is enough in the US for Andrea Pirlo to go anonymous.

“Are we still losing?” Andrea asks without looking at Miro or the screen, and it takes a while for Miro to realize Andrea is addressing him.

“I think you just equalized,” Miro answers numbly, glancing at the screen to make sure that yes, the score line does read 1-1. The bartender hands them their drinks and Andrea joins Miro in his corner booth without asking for permission.

“Then we’ll win this,” Andrea says with a half-smile, still not looking at the screen, and soon enough the crowd in the pub is roaring as Italy scores again. Andrea chuckles into his beer, completely unsurprised.

They sit like that until the end of the game, just silently sipping their beer and minding their own business. As the match ends, Miro realizes Andrea should probably be at the stadium, celebrating the number one spot along with his team. He says nothing.

“Is it hard, not playing for your national team anymore?” Andrea asks nonchalantly, turning the pint in his hands before chugging down the last of his beer. He glances at his watch but appears to be in no hurry to leave the pub.

Miro has to stop and think for a while. Retiring from the national team had been such an easy decision for him after the World Cup that he never really stopped to think about the choices he had.

“Not really. It was the right time for me – there was nothing more I could give to them. It’s like— you look at the youngsters and know they’ll be fine. In a way it’s a relief, actually.”

“A relief, huh?” Andrea mumbles and looks at the screen for the first time – they’re interviewing a young guy, Florenzi, Miro recognizes absentmindedly.

Andrea had taken the other road. Looking at him now, Miro isn’t quite sure it had been the right choice, but it’s not his place to question Andrea’s decisions – they’re not even friends, really; acquaintances at best.

“Sometimes you do feel left out, though. Like you should be there, especially if the team’s losing. I guess that’s only natural,” Miro muses out loud, finally finishing his own pint. He glances pointedly at Andrea’s empty glass. “Another?”

“Nah, I should get going. Bad publicity if I’m not in the celebration photos.” Andrea offers him a crooked grin as he stands up and pulls his cap back on. Miro knows exactly what he’s talking about – Italian sports press is a literal hell. “Thanks for the company. And for the advice.”

“No problem.” Miro doesn’t tell Andrea he wouldn’t consider his mindless ramblings ‘advice’ – somehow, he feels like he doesn’t have to say it, like they’re on the same page.

For a second, Miro feels really old. He wonders if that’s why Andrea had moved to the MLS – the Italian is only a year younger than he is, the same age as Miro was when he ended his international career, and he’s already won everything there is to win.

What would’ve Miro done in his place?

“If you ever feel like playing in the US, give me a call,” Andrea tells him cheekily, as if reading Miro’s mind, and then he leaves the pub. Miro can see him climbing into a taxi waiting outside.

“One more,” Miro tells the bartender, who fills another pint without a question. The screen is still showing images of the Italian national team celebrating.

Miro feels a twinge of longing for his own team, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. But for that one second, Miro definitely understands why Andrea couldn’t give it up just yet.


End file.
